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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826802">wear your ruins well</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool'>blooddrool</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Cis Elias, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Somnophilia, Sort Of, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:53:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,175</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826802</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonah Magnus wakes to the feeling of mist on his skin — and knows that it is Mordechai.</p><p>Elias Bouchard wakes to the tap of a boot on the floor — and knows that it is Peter.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>wear your ruins well</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>two parts: the first with jonah and mordechai, the second with elias and peter.<br/>mordechai and peter are distinctly different people, despite what those voicemails might entail,,,,</p><p>edit: this fic has art now !!<br/>https://twitter.com/transdirtwizard/status/1254317724878073856?s=21</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>i.</strong>
</p><p>Jonah wakes to the feeling of mist on his skin, cold and fine, and the sudden, piercing sensation of someone else’s eyes on the back of his neck.</p><p>It is Mordechai.  He knows it is Mordechai by the silence that falls over the room, the complete and utter lack of sound, of warmth, of presence.  Mordechai is a void, a black hole in the periphery of Jonah’s awareness; Jonah recognizes him by his absence.</p><p>Jonah doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t so much as stop breathing.  His curiosity keeps him still and quiet, despite the warning that tingles at the base of his spine.  He tries to listen, tries to hear that strange emptiness, track it as it moves.  He hears nothing.  The chill falls over him, settles over the stretch of his back where the blankets do not cover him, sinking through the thin material of his shirt.</p><p>Jonah breathes deeply.  The cold comes closer, heavier, dampening down like it’s soaking into him.  Jonah feels the mattress dip on one side of him — a single point of pressure, just enough to suggest a hand being braced beside his head.  Mordechai leans over him.  Jonah can feel his eyes on him like physical things, tracing the bridge of his nose, over his brow, coming to rest at a place behind his ear.  Mordechai’s breath fans over him, long and cool.  He smells like wet earth.</p><p>“Are you awake?” Mordechai asks.  His words disturb Jonah’s curls.</p><p>Jonah says nothing, does not open his eyes.  He tries to keep his breathing even.  Not that it matters.  Mordechai doesn’t know — isn’t familiar enough to know.  It’s a point of pride for him, Jonah suspects: he genuinely has no idea.</p><p>And doesn’t care, either.  He hums, deep and rolling.  Nonplussed by Jonah’s silence, undeterred by his pseudo-sleep.</p><p>The blankets flip back, all the way down to the backs of Jonah’s knees.  That misty, damp chill rushes over him, suffusing into him where he’s still warm.  It raises the hair on his arms in goosebumps.  His legs, too, where they’re bare.  Mordechai is silent for a moment.  Still.  Poised, Jonah thinks.  Always poised.  Like a thing in the grass, hunkered down low, waiting.  Jonah wonders if this is what it feels like to be stalked.</p><p>Warning turns quickly to anxiety, turns to anticipation; it sits up high in his throat, right there like a thing best swallowed.  He shifts in the stillness, parting his thighs and bending a knee.  Inviting, if he didn’t know any better.  Presenting a vulnerability, if he did.</p><p>Mordechai’s hand finds his skin there, at the inside of his thigh.  He’s a shade warmer than the air around him, a few more than the fog he breathes.  His palm is rough, fingers rougher where they dig into Jonah’s flesh.  He squeezes at him, firm and direct.  Like he’s testing for something.  Like he’s thinking about how well his teeth might sink in, just there at the widest part of Jonah’s thigh.</p><p>Well enough, Jonah thinks.  Well enough, Jonah knows.  Mordechai could tear him apart with ease, if he wanted to.  The thought curls through Jonah’s chest, tight to his spine, drops like a stone into his gut.  He bends his knee up higher, only barely perceptible but for the way Mordechai is forced to follow his movement.  The tips of Mordechai's fingers dig into Jonah's skin, one after the other in a rolling motion, like his fingers on piano keys, before sliding his hand upwards.  He drags his nails up along Jonah’s thigh, rough and cracked where Jonah is soft, until his wrist hits the bottom hem of Jonah’s shirt.  And scrapes higher still, until the knuckle of his thumb brushes the hot slick of Jonah’s cunt.</p><p>“<em>Jonah,</em>” Mordechai says, laugh in his voice audible the way that thunder is audible.  His accent pulls at the <em> O</em>, heightens it, stretches it out, and Jonah can’t help the way his lungs trip.</p><p>Mordechai makes no note of it.  His attention is between Jonah’s legs, between his own.  He parts the lips of Jonah’s cunt with his thumb, smooth, flat plane of his nail pressing against Jonah’s skin, finding the core of him.  He doesn’t breach him, just slides easily between his folds.  Appreciative and derisive in equal measure.  Their skin snags together where Mordechai’s cuticle is torn.</p><p>And then he’s pulling away, smearing slick down Jonah’s leg as he goes.  Jonah does not make the mistake of missing him — he nuzzles his face into his pillow and refuses to admit just how near a thing it is.</p><p>The mattress sinks again, jostles, this time about level with Jonah’s knees.  He hears the shift of his sheets against one another, the thump of his blood in his ears, more than he hears the rustle of clothing.  More, even, than he hears Mordechai’s breathing.</p><p>Mordechai’s knee knocks Jonah’s; his weight settles behind him.  Heavy, looming.  Jonah wants to look, wants so badly to look he can feel the desire of it burn at the base of his skull.  Wants to look and see Mordechai kneeling over him — massive, pillar of a man, knelt up proud like a hunter over his kill, rifle on his shoulder.  Or, Jonah muses, feeling Mordechai’s hands reach for his hips, crouched down low and possessive like a big cat over an antelope.</p><p>Jonah does not look.  He tries to construct it in the darkness of his eyelids, instead.</p><p>Mordechai grips Jonah’s hips between his hands like they’re something fragile.  Like something he’s keen on breaking.  Well, Jonah thinks, let him — and then Mordechai pulls at him, drags him up and back until Jonah’s forced to get his knees under him, and Jonah has to hold his tongue between his teeth to keep himself quiet.  Mordechai shifts his weight, settles like a building, gives Jonah another strong tug.  It leaves Jonah arched, swooped down in a curve his shoulders will protest in the morning.  His chest bears his weight, face pressed into the mattress where Mordechai hauled him off his pillow, arms trailing up over his head.</p><p>Mordechai presses up to him, fits his thighs against the backs of Jonah’s.  Jonah can feel Mordechai’s trousers pushed down, bunched just low enough to free his cock, fabric and cold buttons skating against Jonah’s skin.  Mordechai flicks at Jonah’s shirt so that it pools in the dip of his back, out of the way, leaving him open to the air and the cold.  It makes him twitch in the dark.  Small and silent, aroused to the point of soaking, though he can’t be sure until Mordechai’s hand returns to its place between his legs.</p><p>It does, and he is.  <em> Soaking</em>.  Mordechai drags his fingers through Jonah’s folds, slick and easy, gathering wet on his fingers, making a mess.  He slides a finger into Jonah’s cunt, smooth as anything, and Jonah can’t help the way he sighs.  Just air, no sound behind it; even still, the mockery of sleep seems very far away from him now.  His pliancy is only partially pretended, anyways.</p><p>Mordechai’s finger leaves him just as easily.  Leaves Jonah feeling empty, feeling keenly aware of himself — of his chest pressed to the mattress, barbell piercings hard and bodywarm through his nipples, of his arousal pulsing low in his gut, the kind of thing he wants to dig at with his hands.  There’s a rustle again, still more sheets than anything on Mordechai’s person, but the liquid pop of a cork pulling free from a glass bottle is cutting and clear.  A man prepared, then.</p><p>Jonah shifts his weight from one knee to the other, draws an arm down to hide his face in it.  Good thing, too, because Mordechai upends the bottle over the cleft of Jonah’s ass, hand there to guide it where he wants, knuckling at his hole, spreading the oil between his fingers, into Jonah’s skin until it’s as wet as his cunt is.  Wetter, maybe.</p><p>Or not, Jonah thinks, just as Mordechai begins to prod at him.  Or <em> not</em>, Jonah thinks again, inhaling deeply as Mordechai’s finger sinks into his ass, relentless and unerring.  Mordechai fucks him like that, just the one, like he’s bored.  His hand on Jonah’s hip holds him steady, and Jonah presses his teeth flat to the meat of his arm, jaw clenched tight.</p><p>It’s harder to stay still when Mordechai spears him with a second finger, a third.  The stretch aches — aches where he’s stuffed full and aches where he’s empty.  Aches at the way Mordechai fingers him open like it’s business, like it’s a chore.  Jonah supposes it might be.  Jonah supposes it is, it <em> is</em>, but his toes keep curling where they’re hidden beneath his discarded blankets and his weight sinks heavy into the arch of his back.</p><p>Mordechai pulls out before he’s ready.  Jonah’s knees slide apart by centimetres, inches, before Mordechai props him back up, easy and strong.  Like business.  Like meal preparation.  Jonah hears the sound of the phial again, the liquid gurgle of the oil.  Mordechai sighs above him, the first real noise of pleasure he’s made — dropped ragged and private from his mouth like a hint, like a peek, like something uttered for no one’s benefit besides his own.</p><p>The ruse of sleep is difficult to hold on to once Jonah feels Mordechai’s cock against his ass, fitting there flush in the cleft of it, bodywarm barbells smooth on his skin, before Mordechai directs it to his cunt, sliding the long, hard length of it through his slick.  The head of it catches at him, there where he wants it most, and so Jonah’s breath catches, too — but Mordechai fists his cock and drags it upwards, smearing wet.</p><p>Then he’s pushing in, blunt and violating, and Jonah’s groan feels like it comes ripped right from the depths of him.  Uprooted by the force of Mordechai’s cock coring into his ass.  Making room for itself, demanding space.  Mordechai hums, rolling and low, rutting his way inside.  The first of the piercings snags on him, pops in with a sickening tilt of Mordechai’s hips.  Then another.  Another rung on that awful ladder sliding in, ribbing inside of him.</p><p>It burns — it <em> hurts</em>, preparation too brief, too thorough in its inefficiency.  By design, Jonah knows, by <em> design</em>, the bastard, mouth falling open as he stops breathing, starts up again with a gasp.  It feels impossible, this endless, merciless length of him, barbell after barbell.  A third, a fourth.  Jonah’s legs are shaking by the time he feels Mordechai’s balls come to rest against him, bottomed out, steel beads in a line like a thing reaching up towards his heart, his throat.</p><p>Mordechai’s hands flex on his hips, knees shuffling in.  Finding his footing, Jonah thinks, and then regrets it as Mordechai pulls his cock back, fucking it rough and raw back into him just as quickly.  It’s too much, <em> far </em> too much, and Jonah’s hands scrabble at the sheets beneath him, blinking his eyes open in the dark nothing.</p><p>Mordecai grunts through another thrust, deep and plunging, and Jonah feels like he’s been punched — the noise he makes, too, sounding like it’s been beaten out of him.</p><p>“Awake now,” Mordechai says.  He pats at Jonah’s flank like he would a skittish horse, and Jonah bares his teeth like an angry one.</p><p>“<em>Mordechai</em>,” he replies, hissing it out like it might be trying to choke him.</p><p>Mordechai chuckles at him, monosyllabic, jars him with a jerk to his hips, pulling him in tight.</p><p>“Hush.”</p><p>Mordechai fucks him in earnest, then — plants himself in Jonah’s bed and body and drives into him like a man possessed, like an animal.  Jonah can’t do anything but squirm.  He reaches back up the bed, groping blindly for his abandoned pillow, pulls it down to him so he can bite into it.</p><p>Mordechai is deadly quiet in his taking.  Always is.  He doesn’t like it when Jonah makes noise, so Jonah doesn’t.  He doesn’t like it when Jonah tries to buck him off, so he pushes back onto him instead.  He doesn’t like it when Jonah gets himself off — but he’s wet to dripping, pulse throbbing there in his empty, swollen cunt, so he reaches down for his clit, hard and straining.</p><p>Mordechai catches his wrist and Jonah groans, frustrated, grinds his teeth into the soft bulk of his pillow.  Mordechai settles in deep, puts Jonah’s hand back up where he likes it, up above his head, stretching the line of his body out prone and useless.  He leans over him, bracing his weight on his fist by Jonah’s head; Jonah’s knees give way, sliding apart — and slide apart further when Mordechai releases his hip, tangles his hand deep into his hair.</p><p>This close, Jonah can hear him breathing, smell it and feel it as he huffs cold air onto the side of Jonah’s face.  He grips Jonah’s hair tight as he rolls into him, inevitable like a storm, hurting like the wreckage it leaves behind, chasing his end.  Jonah clenches around him, his agonizing girth, clenches around nothing at all, writhes, mounted and used.</p><p>Mordechai comes with his head bowed, brow pressed to the knob of Jonah’s spine, just between his shoulder blades, shoved up so far inside that Jonah thinks he can taste it, can choke on it, can swallow it back down.  He fucks through it, cock pulsing and spitting, driving his come in deep as Jonah shakes beneath him.  He stalls with a long, dragging sigh, going still, sheathed.  Jonah aches to come, doesn’t reach for his clit again, swallows down saliva and whines.  He hasn’t got it in him to ask.</p><p>And Mordechai doesn’t make him, small break in cruelty that it is.  He loops an arm around Jonah’s middle, the other braced over his chest, hauls him up and back until they’re on their knees, Jonah propped against Mordechai’s chest.  It sits him deeper on Mordechai’s cock, and even going soft it chokes a noise out of him.  He grips at Mordechai’s arms, claws at his sleeves, until he feels teeth at his neck and goes still.  His mouth is cold, teeth like glass where they press into Jonah’s skin, right there where his skin is thinnest.  Not biting, just holding — like a threat.  Like a promise.  Teeth cold like glass, yes, and just as sharp.</p><p>Soon, Jonah thinks, someday soon — and then thinks no more as Mordechai’s hand skims down his belly, calloused palm scraping at him, until his fingers part easily through the wet lips of his cunt.  Jonah jerks at the first glancing touch to his clit, intentionally brief, and then keens as Mordechai rubs at him, tight, strong little circles that make the muscles in his forearm roll and flex beneath Jonah’s gripping fingers.</p><p>Jonah comes quickly, too fucked out, too stuffed full to hold out for long as Mordechai works him over.  And works him over well — Jonah goes tight and rigid, thighs shaking, clenching hard around Mordechai’s spent cock, fluttering around nothing but the gush of his own slick, a noise building in his throat and then dying beneath the clamp of Mordechai’s teeth.  Mordechai’s beard rubs at the juncture between his neck and shoulder.  The rise and fall of his chest lulls Jonah like a shipwreck, like two fingers of whiskey, like the eyes of a portrait following him down the hall.</p><p>Mordechai’s mouth parts from his neck with a wet noise.  “Good boy,” he says, low like an afterthought.  His finger brushes Jonah’s clit again, sensitive and swollen like a wound, and Jonah twitches hard, breathes slow and deliberate through his nose.</p><p>He sits up on his own, and the pull of Mordechai’s cock slipping out of him feels sick, feels wrong, feels like it’s dragging his insides along with it.  He stretches back out on his mattress, groaning at the give and release of his muscles.  He feels like a liquid.  He feels sore and incredibly, viscerally empty.</p><p>Mordechai rises, shaking the bed as he moves, and Jonah turns his head to watch him finally, what little he can see in the dark.  Watches him tuck himself back into his trousers, right his clothing.  Put back together in a handful of movements.  Efficient.  Jonah can feel Mordechai’s come leak from him, thinned by the oil.  Can feels his own wet soaking into his sheets, smeared down his thighs.</p><p>He turns over onto his back, blinks slow like a cat.  Mordechai watches him in return, though his eyes never track any higher than Jonah’s mouth.  Jonah bunches the bottom of his shirt up around his waist, hoping to spare it from the seep and spread of their mixed fluids.  Mordechai follows the movement, lingers over the cuffs of the sleeves.  Something happens in his face, something catching, twisting, a budding thought.</p><p>He is wondering about the shirt, Jonah knows; he’s wondering whose it is.</p><p>“Not mine, not yours,” Jonah says, “Though you’re welcome to leave one behind, if you’d like.”</p><p>Mordechai says nothing.  He’s starting to fade around the edges.  That’s just fine, Jonah thinks: trophies only ever go one way between them.</p><p>He stretches, bites back a yawn.  He’s going to feel terrible in the morning.  The whites of Mordechai’s eyes reflect wetly with what little light there is, and Jonah props a knee up, just to see if Mordechai will look.</p><p>He does, and Jonah grins.  “Jealous?” he asks, knowing very well that he isn’t.</p><p>But Mordechai is gone before Jonah has the chance to laugh at him.</p><p>He huffs.  Breathes in the silence.  The temperature of the room rises, but he can still feel the chill, can still smell Mordechai’s breath in the air.  He folds his arms behind his head, languishes in his aches.</p><p>He does not sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>ii.</strong>
</p><p>Elias wakes to the tap of a boot on the floor, deliberately made, and the creeping, prickling sensation of someone else’s eyes on the back of his neck.</p><p>It’s Peter.  He knows it is Peter by the chill in the air, the weight of him in the room, materialized there like something secret, something private, something hidden.  The floorboards creak beneath his weight as he steps forward, moves across the room.</p><p>Elias lays still and silent, eyes closed in a rare twist of content ignorance.  It is only Peter.  He listens to the rustle of clothing, the drop of Peter’s boots to the floor, the raspy scrape of them kicked under the bed.  There will be streaks of dried mud there, come morning.  Dirt in the corners, down in the cracks where the floorboards meet.  Irritating, the way that beardburn is irritating.  The way that pet hair is irritating.</p><p>Peter’s belt and trousers fall to the floor in a heap, a rush of air, well-known sound that it is.  His jacket and shirt, both, a trail of breadcrumbs.  From the door to the bed, the bed to the door.  A hard thing, to lose your way — but Peter has always been eager to defy Elias’ expectations.</p><p>Elias has few, at the moment.  Expectations.  He does not know if Peter’s left his pants on or not.  He doesn’t much care.  He’d mostly just like to go back to sleep.  Whether or not Peter will let him is a matter of his libido.</p><p>The covers flip back.  Elias turns his face into his pillow and shifts, away from the cold and away from Peter, but only to accommodate his size.  The bed is big; he doesn’t have to go far.  Peter’s weight dips the mattress.  He sighs when he settles, long and low, edged with a groan.  Like he feels his age.  Like a dog.  Silver-faced and stiff-jointed.  Elias does not feel his age.  Elias feels good.  Elias feels loose and comfortable, though no longer warm.  He breathes deep into the fabric of his pillow, does not move as Peter comes to rest against him, one long, solid wall of what cannot even charitably be called heat.</p><p>Peter’s arm snakes over his back, down low near his waist, hand splaying out wide against his ribs.  Elias is on his stomach, arms folded beneath his pillow.  A habit he’s never grown out of.  It would not be the easiest thing to kick him, he thinks, slightly muzzily with sleep, but he could manage.  Not that it matters; he doesn’t want to.  Peter presses against him, comes close and noses into the back of Elias’ head.  His beard and moustache catch against Elias’ hair, a strange, gentle tugging.</p><p>“You’re awake,” he says, right there into Elias’ scalp, voice rough from what Elias knows is disuse.</p><p>Elias grunts in response.  He’s awake.  He doesn’t particularly want to be.  But he is awake — and he isn’t surprised Peter knows.  Peter usually knows.  It’s his hand on his ribs, Elias suspects: his tell.  Peter reads it in the rhythm of Elias’ breathing, the expansion of his lungs in his sleep and in his dreams and in his waking.  Too close, a part of him hisses.  Too close, a part of him croons.</p><p>Peter nudges him with his nose (dog, Elias thinks again, like a dog) and smiles.  Elias can hear the wet parting of his lips, the click of his teeth.</p><p>“Turn over,” he says — or asks.  Hard to tell.  Elias smells seabrine and sweat and knows it’s coming from Peter’s hair.  He pulls at Elias’ waist, digs his fingers into the soft, giving flesh between his last rib and his ilium.</p><p>Elias sighs, stretches, reaching with his toes.  Doesn’t move.  Peter pulls harder at him, moving his hand to grip at the jut of his hip.  He turns Elias onto his side like it’s nothing, manhandles him like it’s nothing, and Elias sighs his displeasure, mild though it is.  He shifts to get comfortable, rearrange his limbs.  Peter seals himself tight against his back.  He did remove his pants, after all.  Elias can feel him chubbing up against his ass.</p><p>Peter fits his other arm beneath the pillow they are now sharing, bent at the elbow, and Elias suddenly regrets its presence if only because he might later like to bite.  As it is, he taps his fingers absently against the sheets, says nothing, pushes himself back as Peter begins to rut against him.</p><p>Peter gets hard quickly like this, when Elias reciprocates.  One of his finer quirks.  His hand stays locked around Elias’ hipbone, leveraging himself forward, until he’s full and long, warm now from the friction and the swell of his blood.  He presses his face into the back of Elias’ neck, arching down.  The length of him slots into the cleft of Elias’ ass, even through the soft trousers he sleeps in.  And he’ll come like this, Elias thinks, he’ll come like this and make a mess and Elias will have to change the sheets before he’s able to sleep again and Peter will leave in the interim.</p><p>Elias reaches down beneath the covers, pries Peter’s hand off his hip so that he can squirm out of his sleep pants, shove them down to his knees.  Peter is back on him in an instant, hard flesh of him there where Elias is soft and dry, and it makes his own cock jump against his thigh.  He reaches back for him, finds the meat of Peter’s ass where his femur meets his pelvis, shimmies up the bed slightly.  Just enough.  Just enough for Peter to get the hint, his teeth slightly clammy against the knob of his spine at the back of Elias’ neck.</p><p>Peter hums against him, pleased.  He’s hard to the point of leaking, to smearing, and there's a shuffle of skin on skin, the rasp of rough on soft.  Peter pulls away to spit into his hand, the sound of it harsh and obscenely loud in the quiet dark.  It curls warm in Elias’ gut, even as his mouth twists down in distaste.  Brute, he thinks, and thrills silently at the truth of it.  He nuzzles into the pillow, shifts with lazy impatience.  Peter asks nothing of him and is all the better for it — his hand, calloused thick and scraping with worn-down nails, presses easily between Elias’ thighs, spreading his saliva there until he’s slick.</p><p>“Stay,” Peter tells him, taps him on the thigh, “Tight.”  Redundant, both, but they bounce through Elias like sparks, skipping and fizzling down his vertebrae.</p><p>Then the blunt head of his cock is there.  Pressing between Elias’ thighs, parting his flesh like the lips of a cunt.  He still feels big, even like this.  Bigger, maybe.  Elias slots his knees against each other, flexes until he feels Peter’s grunt rise up through his chest, hears it against the shell of his ear.</p><p>It’s not quite slick enough, but Peter’s cock is drooling, foreskin loose enough around him.  He doesn’t do much more than grind.  Erratic but unhurried, hips flush to Elias’ ass.  Peter’s arm wraps around him, hauls him backwards as if there is any further to go, squeezes around him, palm pressed flat to Elias’ sternum.  His finger’s stretch up towards Elias’ collarbones, the well of his throat.  This big, big hand of his.  Elias tilts his chin up, allows himself a whine, high and pitchy — and Peter is smiling again, teeth so close Elias can hear the grinding, ceramic scrape of them where they meet.</p><p>His hand slides up to Elias’s throat, squeezes just gently, just enough to dampen blood flow.  Big, big hand of his.  It spans the width of Elias’ neck and then some.  Elias swallows, labored slightly, and Peter’s hips jerk, cock slipping up between Elias’ legs until it rests snug against his balls, the underside of his own cock.</p><p>Elias has never worn shirts to bed — not since he became so delightfully male — and the feel of the sheets beneath his torso, his ribs and his waist and his hip, gives him an odd awareness of the fluctuating of his stomach, the clench and release of his muscles there, the rolling, twisting stretch of his abdomen and Peter begins to squeeze a little more, rut into him a little harder.</p><p>It doesn’t take long, like that.  Peter likes it when Elias tries to breathe, so he does.  Peter likes it when he makes noise, so he does.  Peter likes it when he gets himself off, so he reaches down and grips himself, wet with nothing besides his own precome.  He jerks himself like he likes, arousal curling lazy and thick through him as he thumbs his head and his slit.  Peter bites at his ear, squeezes tight, tight, tight around his throat until Elias can no longer try to breathe, can no longer make noise.</p><p>He comes, shuddering and silent.  He catches his ejaculate in his hand, sparing the sheets, and has a split second of respite before Peter is coming too, groaning like a great beast in his ear, hand going slack as the rest of him goes tight.  Elias does his best to catch his semen, as well, that which doesn’t stay trapped between his thighs mingling with his own come in his hand.  A mess, still, but contained.</p><p>They lie like that for a long moment.  Peter doesn’t seem interested in moving, his bulk resting over Elias like another blanket, warm now with exertion and proximity.  Connection.  He runs his nose along the soft skin behind Elias’ ear, noses down towards his neck.  Elias does not want to move either.  Never wanted to move in the first place.  Peter’s cock goes soft, still wedged tight and safe between Elias’ thighs, and Elias could easily fall back to sleep like this, despite the stickiness, the ropes of come in the palm of his hand.</p><p>He thinks he will.  Yes, Elias decides, he will, and it is that exact moment that Peter stirs, lifts himself up on an elbow, pulls his cock away with a slick, muted little noise that makes Elias want to purr.  He gropes around beneath the blankets for Elias' hand, tugs it up by the wrist, leans over Elias to bring it to his face.  Licks a long, wet line up the heel of his palm to the tip of his middle finger.</p><p>“Disgusting,” Elias says, half into the pillow, but the word drops flat between them and Peter laughs at him in that silent, huffing way of his — all air, like a dog with no vocal chords.  He licks at him again.  Elias does little more than twitch.</p><p>Peter is quiet in his task, dutiful, thorough.  Elias allows him his way, limp and content.  Peter nips at the pads of his fingers, facial hair scratching, tickling, before he drops Elias’ hand back to the bed.  And it <em> is </em> — it is disgusting.  His fingers stick together, tacky around the webbing between them, wet going quickly cool in the open air of the bedroom.  But it’s fine.  It’s alright.  Elias reaches down and pulls his trousers back up, wiping his hand on them at his hip.  A mess; still a mess.</p><p>Peter doesn’t mind, of course — doesn’t bother wiping himself down, just settles back into his place, both soft and firm in his nudity.  He wraps Elias up, wedges his leg between Elias’.  Like he’s reluctant to leave.  Reluctant to separate from that warm place.  Elias feels small, tangled up in him.  He always feels small.</p><p>“Sleep,” Peter says, pressing his brow to the back of Elias’ head.</p><p>“I was,” Elias replies.  There’s a sensation hanging around his throat — not an ache, not even a feeling, really.  Just a suggestion.  The absence of a thing.</p><p>“Dreaming?”</p><p>No, Elias thinks.  “Maybe,” Elias says.</p><p>Peter hums.  He sounds thoughtful, even when he isn’t.  Especially when he isn’t.  Elias doesn’t know if Peter Lukas has ever had a thoughtful moment in his life.</p><p>“Do your dreams compare?” he asks.</p><p>Elias huffs.  Really.  He turns his head, twists just enough to catch Peter’s gaze in his periphery.  Peter looks away, only slightly, up and to the left, somewhere in Elias’ hairline.  Fine, he thinks to himself, he will allow him this, too.</p><p>“Not anymore.”</p><p>Peter shakes with a laugh.  Not what he was expecting, then.</p><p>“I see,” he starts, “‘Better the slippery thighs of a boy,’ eh?”</p><p>“<em>Peter</em>,” Elias sighs, trying for warning, trying for dangerous.  Failing.  He closes his eyes to keep himself from smiling.</p><p>But Peter grins — Peter grins because Peter knows.  Insufferable, irritating man.  Like humming off-key.  Like dog hair on his clothes.</p><p>“Alright,” Peter says, down low, giving ground, “Sleep.”</p><p>He presses a kiss into Elias’ hair.  Then another, and another, side by side by side like the beginnings of a crown.  Elias would like to begrudge him for it, but he is close, and he is warm.  Peter will be at the other end of the bed by morning, driven away by the very heat he curates, and Elias would like to begrudge him that, too.  But he doesn’t.  He can’t.</p><p>He sleeps.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>credit for jonah's nipple piercings and mordechai's frenum ladder go to dundee, of course &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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